


Master

by Hikou



Series: Spiral [5]
Category: Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-24
Updated: 2017-04-24
Packaged: 2018-10-23 16:17:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10722825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hikou/pseuds/Hikou
Summary: It burns.





	Master

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zVLWyt66Yj4  
> This is what I listened to.

Neither is sober, but Rude is far worse.

He sits across the table from me. The knot in his tie has been undone. His normally well-made demeanor flakes apart in crinkled silk and unmatched buttons. His collected presence has been unraveled to leave a disjointed mess of nerves in its place; he is confused and he is agitated. The sunglasses are gone, but his hands cover his eyes because he’s always been too ashamed to have anyone actually see them.

To see that there might be something back there.

I watch patiently.

Because I was born for this.

My shoulders stay tight, ready for the fight I know is coming. My heart clenches, waiting for the punch that he’s aiming. I’m ready to kill; if I don’t, it will be me instead.

I was _born_ for this.  

The gin bottle rocks slowly, pouring between us in silent sobs on the carpet—darkening the fabric under his black socks, my bare toes—staining the ground we stand on. It cries until it has no tears left, collapsing spent where I’d smacked it seconds earlier.

It looked familiar, but in a distant way.

I felt powerful in these moments, and maybe that’s why he hid his eyes in shame. We were both fearsome people—proud and beautiful and dangerous, but in these moments something naked and scared lurked in his bright eyes. Something that lived there always took these moments to spare a fleeting glance at the world it had left behind.

It was nothing he had seen and it was nothing he had done.

But it was sad and solemn and it lived somewhere there, where his head met his heart.

It _beseeches_ me for something, but it’s something I don’t understand. It is nothing I have to offer. It is a word I have never heard.

And the coolness of indifference comforts me. Rage hugs where hurt binds and I let my muscles manipulate themselves into this parody of Master.

In these moments, I am always more dangerous. In these moments, I am always stronger. They are the only time I am better because—like the bottle swaying on the ground—I have nothing left to spill. I am cold, and hard, and glaring, and—like the bottle on the ground—if _I_ am broken, I will only cut deeper.

I stand swiftly and angrily because I am a predator. I am the lion. I am the Master. This is what I do.

His head jerks up, alarmed. His body sways. He glances around confused, not sure where he is, not sure which way to run. And though he is still large, and hulking, and powerful, he is the gazelle. This is what he does.

I smack his hands away from his eyes. My hands move with the speed of a cobra. My hands slap with the cruelty of a child.

The broken piece of this man’s soul stares out at me.

I can’t find it in my mind to care what broke him—what he hides behind quiet quips and too dark glasses.

But it screams the word I do not know. It screams and screams in panic as his pupils dart back and forth. And although my face does not move, I can feel my body constrict in agony. But the pressure cannot produce what he wants.

I cannot heal him.

I feel the weakness begin to hit my knees. There is a final show of strength, unbecoming of a woman. It is shameful in the day, but tonight I can still be the predator. It gratifies me.

I grab his collar and hurl him from the chair.

“Go to bed,” I command with a juvenile, but uncannily powerful stomp.

The glass explodes. The blood immediately gushes from my exposed leg.  

He may or may not see. He slinks away just the same.

Broken.

His chair catches me when I collapse; weak and unworthy. He is not there to hear the sobs and the shame is palpable when I cover my eyes in a similar fashion. I am hiding a word he can’t pronounce either. My heart pumps pain through my body. Most of it leaves through my leg. The rest seeks refuge where my head meets my heart; it will live here now.

Our real Master soaks into the floor beneath me.

And it burns where the alcohol touches my blood.

**Author's Note:**

> So it's obviously not real. 
> 
> But it's obviously real.


End file.
